Fatal Alignment

Hello again, friends! I want to thank you all for your encouragement and advice. I really wasn't sure if I was going to continue this story, and I received SO much support after publishing the last chapter. I had written most of this one already but never posted it. For those of you waiting on the conclusion to Poison Ivy, I am actively working on it, every day. I've been writing and editing up a storm, and it's coming, I promise. I'm posting this first only because I had most of it written.

Also, quick note... This is a slow-burn, so I apologize, but not a whole lot of smut in this one.

As always, thank you all again for your patience and support and words of encouragement. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint.

If this chapter had a soundtrack, it would include:

Madalen Duke,

How Villains Are Made

Theory of a Deadman,

Wicked Game

In This Moment,

Roots

Armors,

Parasite

Dreamers,

Zombie

Prep School,

Freak on a Leash

...........

Seven years ago

"Why do you have to leave again so soon? You're always leaving."

Her father pauses, the spoon suspended halfway between the bowl and his mouth. He looks across the table at her, his dark eyes a mirror of her own, aside from the speckles of viridian flakes in hers. He looks... Irritated. Guilty?

"We've talked about this before, Ri. I'm a Defender. I go to the villages to make sure the people are happy and safe."

She nods and looks down. "I know. I just wish I could go with you sometimes. You don't even let me go to the city."

Her father sighs and drops his spoon, causing the tomato-basil-honey soup to splash against the sides of the polished wooden bowl. The legs of his chair scrape against the cabin floor as he stands, making his way around the table. Without warning, he hoists her up and spins her around, walking out of the dining room toward the porch out back. She laughs and clutches his strong arms, secure in the knowledge that she's safe. Her father would never let her fall.

He makes his way over to one of the Adirondack chairs facing the lake and sits down, cradling her on his lap.

"Do you know why your mother spends so much time with you on the willow stone? Or why Amlen trains you with swords and daggers and arrows? Or why I teach you how to fight with both your weapons and the Green at the same time?"

She furrows her brow. "Because it's important to know how to defend myself."

"Yes, but why, Rika? Do Patrick and Braelen learn these things?"

"No." She frowns. She'd never really thought about it before, but Patrick and Braelen didn't know how to use the Green like she did. They didn't practice with swords and daggers, except for play ones. And she could beat them both when they staged pretend battles, easily, even if they teamed up against her. "Why, then?"

He sighs again, running a hand up and down his face. He suddenly looks so very tired, so... so

old

. She's never seen him like this before.

"What have you been learning about souls,

keonai vey?

How do souls look to you, when you see them?"

She smiles and begins chattering excitedly. "They're beautiful! There are so many colors, so many kinds of lights, and they all kind of talk to each other, but in this kind of secret way, and you can

feel

it when they do, it's

amazing!"

She begins lifting her hands, eagerly describing with gestures and facial expressions what it's like to experience touching a soul. It's her favorite thing to practice on the Willow Stone. Thoughts and feelings are private and off-limits except when she

has

to look, when

not

looking would put herself or others in serious danger. But souls... Souls are boastful. They present themselves to her in a brilliant display, revealing each person's truest self, if someone knows how to read them. Which, of course, she does.

He grins a little at her passionate description, waiting until she falls silent to ask his next question. "Have you seen any souls that are all dark or all light?"

"No." That was one of the first things she'd learned about them. "All souls have both, even if one has more of the other."

"Have you ever looked at

my

soul, Ri?" His hand on her hip tightens, but not enough to hurt.

She hesitates, biting her lip. Years ago, before she learned how to put up the special barriers her mother taught her to keep up at all times, she'd begun receiving these... signals. Snippets of thoughts or memories or emotions, plucked by her reaching curiosity as if out of thin air. Her mother had explained that this wasn't her fault, that other people were sometimes so desperate to have someone know a secret, or so overcome with fear or sorrow or joy, that these fragmented images broke away from the mind they originally belonged to and went searching for a place to set their weight down. But once she'd become aware of them, she had quickly learned how to block them.

Any detail of a person's inner mind not freely given

, her mother would say,

is a detail stolen.

One of these... fragmented images... had stood out, had stuck with her over the years. After a particularly tense return to the cabin, when her father and Amlen had stayed up late into the night discussing things she knew she was not supposed to overhear, she'd caught sight of a memory. A memory of her father's hands, drenched in blood.

"No..." she finally answers, not wanting to lie, but reluctant to confess the secret she'd kept from him, and

for

him. But to be so bold as to surreptitiously try to read his soul, and then

lie

about it? That is unthinkable. "No," she says again, this time with more confidence. "Mom said I can practice reading any soul, except for yours and hers."

Her father flinches. Did she say the wrong thing? She swallows. "I used to get these... um... these flashes. But they were... And I was..." she trails off, watching with growing alarm as his midnight eyes become darker, as black as pitch.

"I know, Ri. Your mother is right. To look when people don't want you to look is unethical. Just like using a sword or a dagger on someone is dishonorable. Or using the Green to hurt someone is unacceptable. But we teach you how to, anyway. When is it okay to do these things,

Keonai Vey?"

This, she answers without hesitation. "When someone wants to hurt me."

He sighs and looks down, a crease appearing on his forehead. She can't interpret his expression. "Yes, when someone wants to hurt you, we teach you how to hurt them back." He's quiet after that for so long, she thinks he might be done speaking to her. When he continues, she can feel the pain lacing his words.

"A long time ago," he starts, "before you were born, a very bad man took your mother, and hurt her." She sucks in a breath, reeling a little. She knows something bad had happened to her mother, but no one has

ever

spoken to her about it before. Her mind flashes to the silvery whispers of scars that streak across her back, and the times when Ri feels something dark and painful surrounding Laiyla, like a thick cloud of smoke; consuming and suffocating.

"She tried to hurt him before he could hurt her," he continued, "but he did something very bad, and made it so she couldn't fight back. But your mother's soul was

so bright,

and his soul was

so dark,

that after a while, his soul started to get a little brighter, too."

Adrika nods. She has seen this happen. She's watched as especially brilliant souls chase the shadows from especially sinister ones.

Sometimes, though, the shadows that were chased away were swallowed up by the bright souls, bringing darkness to an otherwise radiant spirit.

A resigned look on his strangely stoic face, her father continues. "After the bad man took her, other people tried to hurt her, too. They tried to steal her brightness for their own rotten souls. But she never stopped fighting back." She feels a flash of pride at that. Her mother is beautiful and strong. Resilient. Of course, she'd never give up.

"When I go to the city, I help the Council. We try our hardest to make sure people like the bad man never hurt people like your mother, like you, ever again. But dark spirits will always exist, and they will always be drawn to the very light souls. And you, little moon, are the brightest soul there is. Do you understand?"

She nods, even knowing she will be thinking hard about his words for a long time after this conversation ends. He doesn't want her to go to the city because he doesn't want her to be hurt. She's always known this, but it does nothing to quell her curiosity and wanderlust.

She leans back, resting her head against his strong shoulder as his arms circle around her, protective and loving. They're both silent for a time, watching as the mild afternoon wind licks across the smooth surface of the lake, creating gentle ripples of sunset colors that look like mixed paint on canvas.

"What happened to the bad man?" she asks softly, twisting a little so she can see his face.

Her father looks down at her then, and she sucks in a breath. There is so much pain there, such anguish in his glassy midnight eyes. His hand moves to stroke across her cheek with calloused fingers. He looks at her like she's the most precious thing he's ever seen. Like he's trying to memorize her face.

"He lived happily ever after

, keonai vey

."

.....................

Present

A brisk volley of knocks dragged a reluctant Adrika into blurry consciousness. Peeling swollen eyelids open, she watched as Killian, perched on the edge of the opposite bed, moved to open the door for a stone-faced errand boy, who began bringing in armfuls of bags and packages. A sharp throbbing dragged her attention away from the efficient delivery of the gear and clothing Killian had chosen and purchased for her.

She stifled a groan as memories of last night slammed into her with merciless clarity. The desperately foolish hope of rescue as they approached the village; the trip through the market, Killian's big arm thrown around her shoulder like a doting lover while he ridiculed her with double entendres and snide remarks; the fleeting comfort of a fresh bath and soft bed, and Eoin...

Oh gods, the things Eoin had told her. Things about her mother. Painful things, horrible things. Things about...

About her father.

So lost was she in her thoughts, that when a warm hand closed around her shoulder, she flinched and gasped at the unexpected touch. The hand lifted immediately, and she peered up at the lavender-eyed giant towering over her and scowling. "Get up, Princess," he growled.

She winced. Whatever had passed between them last night, when he'd kicked Eoin out and held her as she'd sobbed, had obviously dissipated, and he was back to being his usual dickish self. What had she expected? This was the man who had thrown a shackle around her wrist and dragged her away from her home and family. The man whose ominous plans for her were still largely unknown, who wanted to punish her for her father's transgressions. If anything surprised her, it should have been his actions last night, not this return to his normal cruelty.

Averting her eyes, she sat up slowly, sore muscles from days of riding and sleeping on a thin mat in the cold protesting any sudden movements. A fitted black tunic and leather riding pants landed on the bed next to her. She ran her hands over the warm, supple material, flushing at the memory of how Killian's own fingers had moved over her back in soothing strokes. With a resigned sigh, she stood up and walked to the small washroom where

his haughtiness

had graciously allowed her to bathe last night. She could still smell the lavender soap on her skin, and her hair, for once, was not a tangled rat's nest of a disaster that had to be wrangled into some semblance of a braid. With the new garments clutched in one hand, she grabbed the handle with the other and began to pull the door open. She could still feel the way he'd tucked a stray curl behind her ear, his fingers weaving through the wet strands to --

Fuck!

The palm of the hand in question struck the door she'd been trying to open, slamming it shut in front of her. Startled, she jumped back, directly into a solid wall of a chest, and immediately jerked forward again, smashing her face into the closed door.

Because of course.

While the collision didn't do her headache any favors, it did shake all thoughts of Killian from her mind. Or, it would have, had his palm not still been pressed against the door, the oppressing heat of him crowding against her back. The hand not still blocking her escape wrapped tightly around the braided hair at her neck, and he tugged until the back of her head rested against his chest. "If you try to climb out that window, or cry for help in any way, this will be the very last time I allow you to undress without me or Eoin watching very," he tugged again, making her eyes water as her scalp burned, "

very

closely," he finished, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper. "Understand?"

She bit her lip, against the pain and the humiliation.

This

was the person she'd allowed to hold and comfort her last night? He was mercurial, and arrogant, and cruel, but

she

had been stupid enough, naïve enough, to believe that last night was something more than some fucked up game to him. An extra mind fuck to add to her punishment. His grip tightened, and she winced. "Yes," she hissed, hating herself more with each passing second.

"Louder, Princess," he crooned mockingly, and if that fucking bracelet hadn't been around her wrist, he would have died where he stood. Painfully. With one less testicle.

"YES YOUR HIGHNESS!" she shouted, in a petty act of defiance. He was still for a moment, making her question if she'd gone a bit too far, before he released her and stepped away. Without looking at him, she quickly opened the door and slipped in before shutting it, perhaps a tiny bit harder than she'd intended, and spun to press her back against the time-smoothened wood. She took a few deep, shuddering breaths before reaching down to pull Killian's tunic over her head.

Taking her time, she dressed slowly, giving herself a few extra precious seconds alone. By the time she emerged, hair brushed and re-braided, snug attire hugging her figure in warm swaths of fabric, her hands had stopped shaking and her breathing had returned to normal. He was waiting for her, three large leather packs lined up on the unmade bed, his thick arms crossed across his chest. Those unsettling lavender eyes regarded her in an assessing way, moving up and down her body. Her outfit apparently met with approval, because with a grunt that seemed to convey satisfied indifference, he turned to gather up all three heavy packs.

After watching him shoulder the first two, she darted in front of him as he started reaching for the third. "I can take this one," she said, grabbing the thick leather strap. Ignoring her, he reached again for the pack, but she blocked him, stepping closer to it and rotating to the side. "I can carry my own," she told him, narrowing her eyes as she absentmindedly tugged, and then tugged again. "Contrary to what you may think,"

tug

"I'm not some"

tug

"helpless"

tug

"child," she finished, tugging three times in quick succession until it was perched at the edge of the bed. He raised an eyebrow at her and stepped back. Victorious, she turned and focused all of her attention back onto the pack. She jerked on the strap, frowning at its substantial weight. Crouching by the bed, she looped one arm beneath the attached leather and stood.

Well,

tried

to stand.

As her center of gravity shifted, she overcompensated and began to tip backwards. A large hand grabbed her shoulders to steady her, and she took a moment to arrange the strap across her body before shaking him off.

"What the fuck did you put in these, freakin boulders?!" she exclaimed, flushed heat climbing up her neck and coloring her cheeks as she began to head toward the door. She didn't look at him as he held the door open for her and gestured for her to go first. She didn't look at him, but she could hear his amused chuckle.

......................................................

By the time they reached the place where Eoin and the two Mortolfs were waiting for them, Adrika's brow was damp with sweat, her cheeks flushed, strands of dark hair escaped from her braid curling around her face like tendrils of smoke. Eoin, predictably, was not entirely pleased to see her after last night's events, and glared daggers at her as they walked up. The moment they stopped walking, Killian simply plucked the heavy pack from her shoulders with infuriating ease.

He handed the packs off to Eoin, who began securing them to the two Mortolfs after shooting her a dirty look. Two on his, one on theirs. "I could have done that, you know," she mumbled to the Prince's back as they both watched Eoin unpack a quick, decent breakfast. Expecting mocking amusement or, at best, quiet indifference, she looked away when he turned around to face her. She tensed when he captured her chin with thumb and forefinger, drawing her gaze up to him.

There was neither amusement nor indifference in his cool lavender irises. Up close like this, with the soft light of dawn casting golden shadows, she could see flecks of light blue, like chips of ice. Still holding her chin in a gentle grip, his gaze was thoughtful, assessing. "I know, little monster. I know you could have." His eyes flicked over her face, searching and penetrating. It was too much. His full attention was... searing, uncomfortable. She bit her bottom lip and tried to look away, but his grip tightened just a fraction, a warning. Slowly, he moved from her chin up to her mouth, where his gaze had finally settled. Her breath hitched as he replaced her teeth with the roughened pad of his thumb, tracing her lower lip, and she could feel it again... Little electric sparks across her skin, whenever he touched her, whenever he even

looked

at her, like he was looking now. Like he was starved, and she was his favorite meal. Like she was...

Eoin cleared his throat, loudly, his left foot kicking out to tap his Prince's shin. As if waking from a dream, Killian blinked, and blinked again, shaking his head as he broke whatever hypnosis they had both felt. His grip on her chin tightened once, a dark veil falling over his face. He jerked her chin backwards, thrusting her away from him as he turned to help finish securing the packs.

They shared a breakfast of fruit, cheese and bread before Killian hoisted her onto the oversized saddle, tethering her legs and arms with leather straps to help her keep her balance on top of the too-large pillion.

Unlike the days of travel leading up to their little nighttime jaunt through the village, when he'd kept his distance and refused to speak to her at all, today he had climbed up behind her and wrapped both arms around her, holding her tight as they began to move away from the village. He had barely acknowledged Eoin or his bruised and swollen face. Eoin had healed his own broken nose, but apparently had left the remainder of the damage to remind Killian of his actions the previous night.

Killian had attacked his friend. For her. Why?

Both

men were leading her to her supposed doom. Why the sudden protective outburst?